


In Sickness

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluffy, Multi, OT3, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Sickfic, Silver Fox Saturday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:48:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poor Greg has a man cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sickness

**Author's Note:**

> \- I do not own the characters. I intend no disrespect and make no money.
> 
> \- No beta, no brit-pick.
> 
> -Originally posted to Tumblr for Silver Fox Saturday on 10/5/13.

Over a series of deep coughs, Greg vaguely registered the opening of the door. Monday? Was John due back on Monday? What day was it, anyway? The stakeout had been...and then he’d had that headache...Bollocks. He’d meant to clean things up a bit before John’s homecoming. Family funeral, staying with his parents and sister, coming home to a sick partner and filthy flat. ‘Not Good’ didn’t really cover it. He pulled himself upright with the notion of gathering up some of the half-full mugs on the coffee table...or maybe he’d be better served by picking up the tissues that had missed the bin...his head protested even that much activity and he collapsed back against the cushions. When he opened his eyes, John was standing before him with an assessing look on his face and his duffle still slung over his shoulder. 

“How long have you been coughing like that?”

“What? No ‘honey I’m home!’? No kiss hello? Just ‘how long have I been coughing’?” His rant was somewhat spoiled when he failed to suppress another set of coughs.

“Honey, I’m home.” John ticked an imaginary list. “Kiss hello.” -he pressed his lips to Greg’s forehead- “Which tells me you’re running a fever. So. How long?”

“Couple days. Started with sniffles the day you left, then a case lost me some sleep and the whole thing migrated to my chest.” He gently pressed a tissue to his reddened, chafed nose and blew. “Don’t worry, I’ve been looking after myself.” He sank back and closed his eyes again.

“Yes, so I see.” A mug scraped across the table and he heard John sniff. This was followed by an enormous snort. “What the hell was this?”

“Red mug, or blue?”

“Orange.”

Oh. Yeah, that really should have been cleaned up before John got home. Greg waited hopefully for a coughing fit to interrupt the conversation, but the damn thing was suddenly fickle. Should’ve known even the virus from hell would cower before John Watson in lecture mode. What was the question again? He cracked an eye, saw John holding the orange mug at arm’s length. Right. 

“Hot lemon? With ginger.” 

“Uh huh. And it smells of booze…”

“Because of the vodka,” Greg admitted.

“Right. Okay. Not what I’d have recommended, but you’re still alive, so.” He collected the mugs, headed to the kitchen. “Sherlock at Bart’s?” 

More wracking coughs. “Said he had some cultures to set up.” Greg didn’t figure he needed to mention the source of those cultures. He closed his eyes, soaked in the comfort that John radiated. He’d gotten off lightly, no lecture and a minimum of fuss. It was pleasant, just drifting along to the companionable sounds of someone else doing the tidying up. Then John’s voice sounded from somewhere above his head.

“Come on, love. Wake up. Let’s take your temperature, then you can have some tea and toast with your tablets.”

“Not sleeping.”

“Hmm. My mistake; I see now that you are brim full of vigor and energy. Maybe you’ll rest better if we bring down your fever.” He rattled the pill bottle meaningfully.

“Knew you’d fuss. Don’t need ‘em. Don’t want tea.” Greg sat up anyway. “Don’t want toast, either.”

“No? How about soup?”

“Hot and sour soup. And curry, green curry with noodles.”

“Because greasy, over-spiced takeaway is just the thing to prevent bronchitis and pneumonia. Far better than, just as an example, the homemade chicken soup Mrs. Hudson put in the freezer. Don’t know how the NHS and every mother in history missed that one.”

“Curry helps.” Greg turned on the puppy eyes. “I always have curry when I have a cold. And I’ve not had pneumonia yet ever.” No need to remind John, or anyone else, about last winter when he’d had bronchitis and Sherlock had succumbed to flu. 

A long suffering sigh. “Yes, okay, I know. How about this. You take your paracetamol and cough medicine. We take a nap. And then, tonight, we can order up a curry.”

Greg smiled, sniffled, threw back the offered syrup. Swallowed the pills. “We take a nap?”

“Absolutely. Come on, up. I put fresh sheets on the bed while you weren’t asleep.”

Greg tottered down the hall, indulged John’s suggestion of fresh pyjamas, and crawled, coughing, under the duvet. John curled up beside him, pulled him around so his head was on John’s good shoulder and began gently massaging his neck. “Did you solve it?”

“Hmm?”  
“The case for which you lost sleep.” John’s voice clarified softly. “Did you solve it?” He fished in his pocket, offered Greg a throat drop.

“Oh. Yeah. Pretty straight-forward, really. Just needed the surveillance to prove it.” He resisted the urge to chew the herbal lozenge.

“Good. So you can rest now.” John’s fingers slid up to tug gently at the silvery hair. His opposite hand clicked quickly on his phone, then slipped it onto the end table. “Sherlock’s going to bring the take-away.” He spoke around a yawn. 

A couple of weak coughs rattled Greg’s body, but John held him tightly until they eased and then rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades until he really had no choice but to close his eyes. “Sorry. Lousy homecoming. ‘s good you’re back though.”

“Lousy trip.” John corrected him. “Lousy cold, but not a lousy homecoming. Germy, but now I get to lie in bed with you _and_ feel like I’m doing something useful.”

“I’m an awful patient.”

“Mm-hm. Not as awful as Sherlock.”

“Sorry.”

“For not being more difficult?” John sounded amused. Poor John. Greg almost hated to tell him, but forewarned was...something. 

“Sherlock was sniffling when he left.”


End file.
